O Jerusalem!

It's not very often that a cookbook looks and feels like a work of art, and reads like literature. Nor one that makes a political statement.  Let alone a cookbook that does both -- and that is equally enticing and practical as a cookbook. I think the only example I could have come up with, until now, would have been Anna Thomas's classic, The Vegetarian Epicure. 

That was back in the seventies, when I was first learning to cook. At the time, that was a reluctant duty, in a relationship with roles I thought shouldn't be based on gender, but somehow were.  Cooking for Two on a Dollar a Day, off the magazine rack in a supermarket, got me over the initial surprise of discovering that there was more to spaghetti with tomato sauce than pouring tomato soup over boiled noodles. Then I came across The Vegetarian Epicure. Simply picking up the chunky, square, just-the-right-size paperback was a sensual pleasure, with its  toast-colored pages, brown typeface in a retro font and whimsical, distinctive drawings by Julie Maas. Her dreamy vegetable goddess and lively little carrots on the front cover expressed a friendly, playful invitation, even though I wasn't a vegetarian and approached cooking with a bit of resentment. I accepted that invitation, and The Vegetarian Epicure opened my eyes to what has become an enduring  joy in my life: cooking as an art form, a daily meditation, a way of showing love to others, delighting all my senses, feeling gratitude for the fullness of earth's bounty and my good fortune to share in it. 

Anna Thomas wrote the stories behind her recipes, in a gentle, warm voice that read like fiction; without preaching environmentalism, she  encouraged the reader to see the value of making honest, natural food from scratch, without waste, and sharing it with friends. I learned to enjoy vegetables I'd never experienced growing up in the '50s, where the suburban gastronomic heights featured soup-based casseroles, jello and TV dinners, and every head of lettuce was iceberg. And I discovered, literally, a world of cooking: French onion tarts and sauteed mushrooms served warm on cool, crisp leaf lettuce;Greek artichokes braised in lemon and oil; biryani and eggplant curry; minestrone alla milanese, and a version of macaroni and cheese, made with three different classic cheeses, bechamel sauce and freshly ground pepper, that has never been surpassed. I was hooked. I even named my cat Anna Thomas.

I've acquired probably a hundred shelf-feet of cookbooks since those days. And since I don't actually have a hundred feet of shelves in my kitchen, never did, the cookbooks that end up staying for a decade or two, or four,  are in select company. Ages ago, I had to replace my original copy of The Vegetarian Epicure, and I will do that again if I have to.  Some cookbooks stick around for a just few years, when I realize they are not earning their keep-- so out they go (to another home, of course). Others are very close friends I'd never show the door to: the works of Marcella Hazan and Julie Sahni, for example, on which I raised my family. Wonderful as they are-- thorough, user-friendly, well-illustrated  guides to the pantry, techniques and variety of Italian and Indian cuisine respectively-- I would not say they are literature, art, travelogue and a plea for world peace, all rolled into one.

I will say that of the new cookbook Jerusalem, a collaboration between Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi. I'd noticed a lot of buzz around this book, including a Sunday Times Magazine  piece about Ottolenghi by Mark Bittman (another "keeper" on my kitchen bookshelf). So I checked it out a month or so ago on Amazon, and it never made it onto my wish list -- I had to have it NOW. 

First of all, the photos are gorgeous, along with every other physical element that book designers draw upon to make you keep turning pages with pleasure, even virtual pages. Of course, that's almost the rule for hardcover cookbooks these days. 

What hit me next was the imagined aroma and flavor of one dish after another that I began to crave: roasted cauliflower and hazelnut salad...lemony leek meatballs...swiss chard with tahini, yogurt and buttered pine nuts...YUM! (And so they were this week.) Can't wait for roasted chicken with clementines and arak (ouzo, or Pernod), potatoes roasted with caramel and prunes, fava bean kuku, a frittata-like dish, or shawarma, charred okra with tomato, garlic and preserved lemon, not to mention lamb slathered with a dozen spices and garlic, before slow-roasting. Beyond good eating, the recipes promised an expanded horizon:I'm eager to explore all of the ways the authors play with eggplant or hummus.  Some of the recipes suggested to me the connections between Middle Eastern and Indian cuisines, which is a big plus for my palate: for example, mejadra, an Arabic take on rice with lentils and fried onions, or a saffron basmati pilaf with barberries, pistachio and herbs. 

Once the  book was in my hands, I couldn't put it down. Sure, nearly every recipe has a photo, and they all entice. But not all the photos are of food. We see the people of Jerusalem here, in their shops and markets and kitchens, going about the daily work of sustenance. Beyond their images, an introduction and numerous short essays and recipe headings bring to life the city of Jerusalem, its millenia of conflict within a triad of faiths and their different yet related ways of cooking and eating, sometimes as much at odds with one another as members within one family. I began to appreciate, through images and the tastes and smells they conjure up, just what makes this city so special, as an experience, not just a religious and political symbol. The authors share their backgrounds as two men -- one Arab, one Jew-- who are both natives of this land, now combining their different perspectives and cuisines into a partnership far from home, the London restaurant Ottolenghi. Their friendship with one another, and their shared yearning for peace in the world of Jerusalem, shine through this volume to make a powerful statement of hope and a possible means to bring it to reality, through the basic, not simple, act of sharing good food, its many flavors expressing the richness of all Jerusalem's peoples.

I found the recipes clear and easy to follow, not wordy and not fussy, but with enough comment to keep me on track. The hardest part of using the cookbook in the kitchen will be to keep it clean, because it's so beautiful, and I know I'll be using it often.

I always thought I was half-English and half Scots-Irish. Fond as I am of all things Brit -- like the great social novels of the 19th century, tea the drink, tea the meal, vine-covered cottages, the BBC, the royal family-- I wasn't too proud of being half-English. There's the Empire, for starters. And being American, and a history buff, there's the way the English colonists treated the people who already lived here, a scandalous story that we gloss over with our Thanksgiving myth. I also lived in Brooklyn, the greatest city on earth, for ten years, and I came to appreciate, if that's the right word, how bland an ethnicity is English...You can't taste it, smell it, sing it, turn it into a festival (at least, not unless there's a royal wedding). There's a reason why, too: that old ruling class that dictated English ways in America become our cultural "norm," colorless and pervasive as the air we breathe. Whereas I love Indian food, Italian markets and Irish music.

So imagine my joy at getting around to a spot of genealogical research a year ago, and discovering (through a solid source, an entire book on my family in America, written by a Naval officer and currently in the Library of Congress, online to boot!) that my surname is NOT English. My ancestor, going back to the early 17th century, was a Scotsman, who changed one letter in his name to anglicize it, probably a career move in 1640. I am Celtic through and through. That explains a lot! Including my earthly soul mates, my beloved late husband and my current companion, as Irish as they come. And my broodiness.

Which brings me to my faith. Recently I've reconnected with my Christian upbringing, which was not evangelical, for sure, but no one back then was clear about the important idea that that, as Marcus Borg puts it, the Bible can be taken seriously but not literally, that its truths don't depend upon taking it as historical fact, and faith is not a litmus test, but an orientation of the heart. My parents were a strong example of the meaning of church as community and public service, but short on theology, and though I joined their church as a youngster, with so many unanswered questions I soon drifted away.  Eventually I found the UU denomination, a noble hodgepodge of essential values  I now describe as "necessary, but not sufficient," since it's all too easy in some congregations to play with the trappings of world religion (in my case, Buddhism lite) without really being spiritual at all. (One warning sign would be when you discover a coterie of imported second-home-owning millionaires running things, no mention of God or Jesus, all the music is politically correct African spirituals or un-singable "PC" versions of old hymns with new lyrics and no harmony, and all the sermons are about politics or "mindfulness," code word for "feeling good about being me." I exaggerate a bit, but that's mostly accurate. )

Now I have discovered a deeper experience in a UCC church, one that is moving toward what's now described as the "emerging church," or "progressive Christianity." (There's the joke that UCC stands for "Unitarians Confused about Christ," and its liberal approach is actually closer to the kind of Christianity embraced by the original Unitarians and Universalists than what you will likely find in a UU church today.) I've already mentioned the influence of Borg, not only on the name of my blog, but on my ability to see Christianity as something quite apart from any church, or the horrible things done in its name, to see the real meaning of Jesus, the historical Jesus, the real man, in his message and life example: "Go and do likewise." And that brings me to an early experience of Christianity that is part of my new-found heritage, Celtic Christianity.

I had a wonderful guide in Kenneth McIntosh, in his new book, Water from an Ancient Well: Celtic Spirituality for Modern Life. The author explores in each chapter a different aspect of the Celtic worldview and how that was expressed in their folkways and  faith both before and after becoming some of the earliest converts to Christianity. He discusses the Celtic sense of the inter-connectedness of all beings-- captured in so many beautiful designs on stonework, jewelry, artifacts of daily life, texts, and the Celtic Cross, for they valued artistry and craftsmanship as part of everyday, not a luxury; the sacredness of the natural world; music as a bridge to the divine; the power of story and of scripture, to express truth symbolically in a way that reaches our hearts; the need for community (a fairly egalitarian one, at that, especially for women)...I found myself saying, Yes! Yes! and feeling delight at the notion of my kinship with these ancient peoples. 

Two chapters were a bit of a struggle for me, in the sense of stretching my mind around them, though unquestionably they focused on significant aspect of Celtic Christianity it would have been remiss for the author to ignore: their belief in miracles, and in "angels and demons." I do have an open mind to the possibility of a supernatural aspect of existence (one powerful personal experience of it), but I'm not about to accept the reconciliation of miracle and physics offered by C.S. Lewis, an Irishman himself. My favorite chapter was about the Celtic concept of a "soul friend," who acts as a confidante with a loving care to nurture one's spiritual growth.

McIntosh uses stories from his own life, along with retellings of the lives of the Celtic saints and legendary heroes, to make his points, all  interspersed with Celtic prayers and sayings. Each chapter ends with suggestions for ways to bring this spiritual dimension into our everyday practice.His prose is graceful and inviting, and while I read this as an e-book, I wish I had the hard copy, as it is filled with the striking Celtic designs. His work is thoroughly documented with chapter notes and references, making it a valuable introduction to a topic I will want to explore for a long time to come. That's a good effect to have upon a reader!